We Ran Out Of Lux
Adios, Lux Interior. You were unique, of course. The last time I saw you, you were clambering up the lighting rig of the Hammersmith Odeon, topless, wearing lame pants, with the microphone tucked in the back as you scaled even higher. When you had reached the top of your ascent, you grunted a few salacious lines, saluted the audience and then rammed the fetid microphone into the far reaches of your throat.
Your age was always rather indeterminate, since you had drunk from the magical essence of rock. Now I learn that you were 62 when you passed in Glendale, California. Your heart was bad, but then again it had worked plenty for so many years. I can't say that I listened to The Cramps all the time, but there was generally a mood or a streak of special folly that would demand some of that virulent twang and strut. It's unlikely that another soul can replace that function.